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Bradford’s oversized face turns purple. “Show some fucking respect?—”
Tony and Gil lurch forward, but I grab both their arms. “We’re not here to start a fight,” I say. “Just let me see his face.”
Two more officers join Bradford to square off with Tony and Gil. I walk around the testosterone-fest and approach the casket.
Jim lies inside, his features frozen in an expression of peace. I study his artificially smooth skin and the way his red hair has been carefully arranged to make him look respectable. Now he looks like a waxwork.
My hands curl into fists. I want to scrape off that veneer and expose the real Jim Callahan. The monster who broke me down until I was a shell.
“Enjoy hell, you worthless motherfucker.” I ball up my saliva, ready to spit in his face.
“You’ve got a nerve, coming here dressed like a whore,” a voice croaks from behind.
I turn around and lock gazes with a much older version of Jim. “Mr. Callahan?”
Jim’s father is in his sixties, frail from getting shot while on duty. He exists on a liquid diet, the alcohol turning his skin into a network of broken capillaries.
His lip curls. “My son took you in and put a roof over your head and you left him the moment you struck it rich.”
I flinch. “I left Jim because he was abusive.”
He shakes his head. “That law firm came knocking with news of your inheritance and you bolted.”
My brows pull together. “Have you been hitting the scotch again? What are you talking about?”
“Your father died, and the lawyer gave you millions, then you forgot all about my Jim,” he says.
“You’re drunk.” I glance over my shoulder to where Tony and Gil are surrounded by officers.
My stomach drops. One of these bastards must have called for backup. I need to leave now before either of them gets hurt. As I turn around, Mr. Callahan grabs my arm with a surprisingly tight grip.
“You owe us for all the money Jim poured on your ungrateful head,” he hisses. “They’re saying you’re worth over a hundred mil. So why the fuck are you shacking up with the man your father framed for murder?”
Blood roars in my ears, and I remember every time this worthless old bastard swung a punch at me, trying to punish me for the sins of his ex-wife. Worse still, his successful attempts at goading Jim to violence. This drunk taught his son to be a monster, and I’ll be fucked if I put up with another moment of his abuse.
Whirling around, I shove Mr. Callahan hard in the chest, and he falls against the casket. It crashes to the ground with a heavy thud and Jim’s body rolls out onto the floor.
Jim’s face is no longer a mask of peace, but a mess of broken wax and decomposed flesh.
My senses turn numb with shock. I gasp, my hands flying up to my mouth.
“My son!” Mr. Callahan screams, his voice echoing across the church.
The officers surrounding Tony and Gil rush over to the commotion. I turn on my heel and run, every muscle in my gut heaving. My two companions jog after me, filling the walls with their laughter.
Once we’re outside, a wave of nausea forces me onto my knees. I collapse against the car and vomit, my mind replaying the horror of Jim’s dead, mangled body. Gil holds me up as my stomach ejects its contents. Afterward, he bundles me into the back seat of the car, and Tony speeds down the street.
* * *
Despite Tony and Gil’s assurances that I’m some kind of fucking hero, Jim’s broken body haunts me for the entire journey home. I wanted to spit in his face but ended up desecrating his corpse. I can’t think through their raucous laughter, and my stomach won’t stop churning.
Once the two men fall quiet, I think back to my conversation with Mr. Callahan.
Jim’s father was an alcoholic who used to get drunk until he blacked out. At least once a week, Jim’s mood would be soured by a late-night phone call from some precinct informing him about his dad’s latest antics.
On the few occasions Jim allowed Mr. Callahan to sober up in his house, the old man would spew violent diatribes about Jim’s gold-digging mother who ran away in the dead of night.
I lean forward on the back seat with my head against the cool window and groan. Mr. Callahan must have been confused, because the paintings I sold makes me worth a few hundred grand, not millions.
